Lost and Found
by icywind
Summary: A disenchanted Russian Immortal from the Imperial days meets a man made Immortal by the horrors of the Holocaust. Together they learn how to live again. Will be Slash....rating my go up... Please R
1. Lost and Found: Prologue

Title: Lost and Found

Author/Email: Icywind icywind378@yahoo

Rating: PG-13

Content/Warnings if needed: Allusions to the violence of war (spec WW1 and WW2) and the Holocaust. Eventual Slash content as well.

Summary: A disenchanted Russian Immortal from the Imperial days meets a man made Immortal by the horrors of the Holocaust. Together they learn how to live again.

Feedback: please!!!

Disclaimer: The characters and story belong to be, Icywind. The Concept of Immortality belongs to Davis/Panzer prod.

Archive rights: Hub8 (my page), ff.net, Ask otherwise.

Any sort of author notes: I must thank Jenn and JP for their support and feedback, and Fran for the Beta. 

There is some use of a few non-English langs in this. It is roughly correct but not fully so. My apologies on that.

Lost and Found

Prologue

Poland; January 27, 1945

A thick snow was falling as the Soviet troops marched into the city of Oswiecim, Poland. They had little to no trouble taking the city, most top Nazi officials and troops had already left - seeking to reach their mother country, hoping to stop the Machine of the Red Army from taking her.

Colonel Nikolai Mikhailov, known at birth as Ivan Nickolaev, paid little attention however. Nothing much phased him anymore. He had become disenchanted with life, Immortal life. Who wants to live forever when all life is War and Death? Calmly he glanced around the city from his vantage point in a downtown building, and lit a cigarette. He puffed away at it slowly while reading the latest reports from other Units in the area. A young Private entered the room and stood at attention.

"Yes?"

"Sir, we are ready to inspect the camp Auschwitz. Preliminary reports say it is the largest of the 'Exterminations camps' we have found so far. Reports also say that most of the prisoners were marched out a 10 days ago…" He nodded and stood gesturing with his hand for the Private to lead the way.

He had thought he would be ready for the scene ahead of him… thought that years of war had burned any sense of emotions in him… he was wrong. He looked on in mute horror as they toured the large camp. You could still smell the scent of death, feel the pain and torment in the walls and the ground. How any person to do this to another was mind boggling yet just the same it had happened…and he was seeing it first hand.

"There are survivors," the Private was saying as they exited one of the buildings. "They must have been dubbed too weak or sick to evacuate."

"They might have gotten the better part of the deal," he heard himself say as they continued onward towards one of the barracks. Then suddenly as they reached the door it hit him, something he hadn't felt in five years. A Quickening… one so faint it had to be fairly new and the person whom in belonged to must be near death. He entered the building and looked around, trying to pinpoint the location of the other Immortal. Numerous pairs of sunken eyes stared out at him from their sockets, skeletal bodies lying everywhere struggling to breathe, it was sickening. Then when he thought he could no longer stand searching he found him.

He would be a tall man, if he could stand. Faint traces of brown hair adorned his head, and what once must have been rich mocha colored eyes, now became dull brown orbs staring out of sunken depths in defeat. He was so thin Ivan could count the ribs by sight alone. Slim hipbones barely held up coarse pants and a rough shirt with many holes covered his chest. He looked half-dead and Ivan suddenly wanted very much to cry. '_He must have been beautiful when he was healthy… now he looks like the walking dead…_' Gently he turned the man's arm to get a look at the tattoo. The high number confirmed his suspicions, an Italian Jew.

"Non si preoccupi. Sono qui aiutarlo. Ora siete sicuri." He said in uncertain Italian. The man just looked at him blankly and Ivan wondered for a moment if he was even the least bit coherent. Then suddenly he nodded at him.

"Cosa è il vostro nome?" he continued. The man turned his arm and pointed weakly at the number tattooed there. '150862.' Ivan shook his head and asked again.

"Cosa è il vostro nome?" This time the eyes locked with his and comprehension dawned in them.

"G...Giovanni Bassani," he managed to croak out. Ivan smiled at him in encouragement then signaled the Private over.

"I want this one brought to my room back in the hotel. In fact, ready my car, I will take him myself."

"But Sir…regulations…"

"I do not care for regulations _Private_, just do as I say. I need this man for questioning and I would rather he be under my care than that of a doctor I do not trust…" The younger man nodded and did as he was told.

For a week Ivan cared for the young Italian, helping him gain more strength and health. Even his Immortality had been sorely pressed to cope with the harsh conditions of Auschwitz. Finally 10 days after having entered Oswiecim Ivan left the city. Heading back for St. Petersburg now called Leningrad. And with him the Italian went.

Tbc...

"Non si preoccupi. Sono qui aiutarlo. Ora siete sicuri." Do not worry. I am here to help you. You are safe now.

"Che cosa è il vostro nome?" What is your name?


	2. Lost and Found: Chapter One

Authors notes: See prologue for full notes & disclaimer. 

  


Lost and Found  
Chapter 1   
  
Leningrad, Soviet Union  
February 8, 1945 

  
  


A standard issue Soviet army jeep pulled up to the curb in front of a modest home in Leningrad. Ivan emerged from the driver's side and made his way around to the passenger door. Slowly and carefully he helped the Italian out. His slight form was swathed in heavy blankets and Ivan had to carry him up the few steps into the home. He brought him over to the large sofa in the front room and gently placed him upon it. The brown eyes looked upon him in thanks as he stood and the man below him sighed softly.

"Can I get you anything? I have to go fix up the guest room so you'll be down here alone for a bit while I do that…" he asked. The man shook his head and closed his eyes, seemingly gratified just for the chance to rest on a normal piece of furniture for the first time in years. 

  


Ivan then dashed up the stairs and down the hall to the spare bedroom. Quickly assessing the situation he opened the closet and pulled out some fresh linens and made the bed. He turned on the light on the table beside and ran a glass of water to place next to it. Finally he was off down the hall to the master bedroom. He ran a hand through his hair as he searched the titles on the bookshelf. 

  


'_No…not that one…this certainly won't work… I know I have something here somewhere…'_ he scanned the next shelf and the next… finally he stood with a look of satisfaction. '_This should do nicely…_' with a slight smile he placed the books beside the bed and made his way back downstairs. 

  


Giovanni was dozing lightly when he made his way into the room. '_So peaceful… you would never be able to guess the horrors he has seen…_' The young man stirred then and gave him a sleepy look. 

  


"May I have a bath?" he asked quietly. 

  


"Of course…" he replied moving to the couch to help the other man up. He had to carry him again, his body still somewhat un-used to and unwilling to perform the exertion it took to climb to the second floor of the house. Ivan ran the bath water as the Italian undressed himself, not at all shy about the appearance of his nude body, the camp had whittled away at him enough that he no longer cared… After that he carefully climbed in and sank deep into the water with a grateful sigh. 

  


"Too warm?" Ivan inquired as he settled next to the tub. 

  


"No, just fine…feels good…" Giovanni let his eyes slip shut partially again as he began to relax once more. Under a hooded gaze he took in the man next to him. "Why do you help me so? What reason is there behind this?" he finally asked. It had been a question he wanted to ask for several days…once his thoughts had finally broken free of the dark stupor from Auschwitz and had been able to focus more on his benefactor. Ivan regarded him a moment before replying slowly. 

  


"I…I am not totally sure actually. You and I are alike for one… you are Immortal as am I." 

  


"Immortal?"

"It's… hard to explain. You will not die, permanently anyway, until someone takes your head. No injury will ever last for very long, your energy heals it almost instantly. Any death, save for loss of your head, you will wake up from later." 

  


"And there are others like us? What…what do we do?" 

  


"Yes there are many – or so I have been told – I have only met a handful myself. As for what we do… For centuries our kind has fought in 'The Game' we use swords to fight to the death. Holy ground is the only safe haven where you cannot be challenged. No one knows why we do this –only that there can be only one in the end. Do not worry though… while we do fight there are many of us that have managed to befriend each other – making more normal relationships, friendship even…" His soft smile faded then and his face grew serious. "There are some of us however I have been told that desire nothing more than power and will not stop to talk – only fight. It is those you must truly look out for." 

  


"How do I know who to trust? How do I even figure out when I am near one of us?" 

  


"When…when I found you the other day I felt a buzzing in the back of my head, a whisper or a voice… Can you feel one right now?" The Italian cocked his head quizzically then nodded. "That is how we know another of our kind. It is called the 'Quickening' it is what the victor receives when he takes another's head. It is the energy – the knowledge and power we have accumulated over the years." 

  


"But…but how did I become like this? Was I born this way? How did this happen?" 

  


'_I asked myself that same question…_' he thought his memories flitting back… 

  
  
  


**** South East of Petrograd Russia 1918****

  
  


He jolted awake with a start, awareness centered on the odd tingling sensation in his abdomen – a sensation that moments before had been one of exquisite pain.

'_What is this? I should be dead… I was dying…the saber wound…_' His hand went to his stomach. The tear in his shirt – still there, still stained with his blood. But below that… below the tattered fabric his skin was healed over, pink and new. A scar had formed. 

  


Disorientation took over. He glanced around the battlefield, his fellow soldiers laying dead or dying around him. '_We lost…I remember that…I was stabbed, I DIED why am I now alive? How is it that I healed but the others have not?_' 

  


He stumbled to his feet… he felt nothing of his previous wounds, no cuts, no bruises. He felt fully healthy. Slowly he began stumbling over bodies, walking away from the battlefield, walking into an unknown future. 

  
  
  


****Present****

  
  


"No…no you were not born this way exactly." He said shaking his head to clear it. "Those who will become Immortal are born normal, as any other child, but within us is the potential to become Immortal. When we die the first time, usually in a violent manner, then we become Immortal." He paused somewhat afraid of broaching the subject. "Sometime… while you were in the camp… did you…did you think you died, only to be alive when you awoke?"

"Many times," came the soft reply. Ivan reached out a hand and gently caressed his cheek in a gesture of comfort. 

  


"It will be all right… I will teach you all you need to know, and I will take care of you until you are ready to stand on your own." Ivan smiled softly as Giovanni raised his eyes to meet his in gratitude. 

  


****

A half-hour later Ivan folded himself onto a chair in his room and sighed deeply. Giovanni had finished his bath and gone to bed. '_Sleep is what he needs… rest and healing… then after he is better we will train. I will teach him as Sergei taught me._' 

  
  
  


**** North of Omsk, Siberia 1919****

  
  


He was not sure how long he had been walking…it seemed like forever. Crossing the Urals had been the worst part of the journey. Though they were not as high as the Caucasus in the south, their dense foliage made travel quite difficult on foot. Luckily he had managed to snag transportation on a train before he could see whether or not he could die of hypothermia. 

  


Now the vast openness of Siberia lay before him. '_Criminals were and probably still are sent here._' He mused as he walked down a dirt road. 

  


"My luck I will run into a prisoner of the Tsar who will recognize me and try to kill me…" he muttered to himself. He was dressed in his army uniform, still bearing its rank mark – that of Major-General in the Royal Army. Though now it was no longer as grand as it once was, stitches and patches dotted it now, it had seen many battles and much hardship. It seemed to be an outward manifestation of the feelings within him – torn, patched, fraying… He had also allowed a beard to grow – something he never would have done before. 

  


'_Mother would not even recognize me…_' he thought, though he did not allow himself to tarry on that thread of reasoning. He knew, or rather was almost certain, that his parents were no longer alive. They were too close, too supportive of the Tsar for the Bolsheviks to let them live. 

  


'_It is just as well, how could I explain this to them?_' he thought darkly. '_Dying then returning to life it is the stuff of…_' 

  


He stopped short. A wave of nausea hit him and a buzzing sounded in his head. A tall imposing man stepped out of a shack up ahead of him, glancing around, looking for something; '_or someone…_' It was then that Ivan was spotted. 

  


"Greetings Tovarich," the other man said smiling. His accent was odd to Ivan. It was unlike any he had heard in Saint Petersburg or Moscow, and it also was unlike any he had heard so far in the Urals and east of them. He was native to the country, of that Ivan was sure – but he could not place him to any region. 

  


"Have we met before? If you do not know who I am how do you know I am a friend? I could just be here to kill you, or perhaps rob you." The tall man laughed and stepped closer. 

  


"Ah, you have a sharp tongue and a good head on your shoulders, let us hope we can keep it there." Ivan's hand had strayed to his gun as the man neared him. "Caution…good." His hands raised-a sign that he was unarmed. "I am Sergei Primov; I was born nearly 2000 years ago in the Novgorod area. Like you must have recently I was killed in battle, only to be reborn hours later. I am Immortal. You now too are Immortal. Come inside, I shall explain more." Reluctantly Ivan did so. 

  
  


****Present****

  
  
  


As the memories let go he glanced around the sparse room and quirked a brow. '_I wonder how long it will be before I am reprimanded for taking off as I did… Might be time for Nickolai Mikhailov to pass on…_' 

  


In all reality the adoption of a new identity would not be difficult. The Leningrad house was under his father's name still and he hadn't been to the city for almost three decades… '_No one knows Nickolai and most have forgotten Ivan… I will speak with Alexandr tomorrow…_' He rose from the chair and began preparing for bed. 

  


****

"No…no, please no… not again…" Giovanni was tossing in the bed, a sweat broke out on his forehead and his face contorted in pain. "We didn't do anything, why are you taking us? Where are you taking us? Please… Mother! Mother no..." his cries became louder and soon Ivan bolted into the room concern etched on his face.

"What is happening? Giovanni…Giovanni what is wrong?" he stood over the bed a moment. "Dreaming…" he sat on the edge then, tried to grab the thrashing limbs… "Giovanni wake up…" Brown eyes snapped open in horror and with a small shout Giovanni tried to back away from Ivan. 

  


"No! Do not hurt me! Please…keep away…" his eyes were wide in fear.

"I am not here to hurt you Giovanni, I am here to help you. You are no longer at the camp, you are safe. Remember? This is Ivan… I saved you, you are safe now." The eyes slowly became aware of the surroundings, aware of Ivan… and he broke into tears. Great heaving sobs shook his still slight form as he choked out an apology.

"F…forgive me friend, I...I…forgot. It...it was so real…" Gently Ivan ran his hand over Giovanni's cheek wiping away some of the tears. He pulled the other man close to him and held him rubbing his hand over his back and murmuring soothing words. 

  


"It's okay… it's all right…" he said quietly as the Italian sobbed into his shoulder, clinging onto him for dear life. He had to suppress a grimace as his hand rubbed over the too bony back. _'The physical problems are easy enough to see, easy enough to deal with… but these dreams… the emotional scars…'_ for the first time he wondered what he had gotten himself into, and how he could possibly hope to help this man. 

  


****

The next day Ivan rose early, showered, and dressed in civilian clothing for the first time in years. He prepared himself a small breakfast and then went to check on Giovanni. The Italian was sleeping, exhaustion still showing on his features. He took small comfort in the fact that the lines were not as vivid as they had been when he first found the young man. Leaving a note, more water and some bread out for him he set out into the cold Russian winter.

He looked at few people as he walked down the quiet streets of Leningrad. It had been decades since he had seen his birth city but not much had changed in the intervening years. _'Outwardly at least' _he mused as he turned onto a side street. There was a small apartment complex at the end of it, and that was his destination. Stepping inside the building he ruffled his hair to remove the snow and then buzzed one apartment. The door opened slowly and Ivan broke into a grin upon seeing the person at it.

"Ivan Alexeivich, do my eyes deceive me? Welcome! Come in come in…" Alexandr Falipov an old man of nearly seventy said his gray eyes sparkling brightly as he pulled the Immortal into a warm hug. "What brings you home so early? Did you have an "accident"?" 

  


"No Old Friend, but there is much I wish to tell you…" he replied moving easily into the small apartment.

****

"Death Camps? Dear lord… We heard rumors but… that's all we thought them. Rumor, hearsay… just something to rally to the cause." Alexandr shook his head as he poured some coffee for the other man.

"No…they were all too real I am afraid… and I found another of my kind in one." Alexandr's expression was pained as Ivan told of his finding Giovanni.

"Do not worry, I can prepare papers for you both," he said when the Immortal finished. "And Sofi would be more than glad to help you out with caring for him. 

  


He smiled warmly at his old friend, "Thank you, Sasha."

"You haven't called me that in years..." the old man's eyes watered slightly as he gripped the Immortal's hand. "I've missed you, your family. Things just aren't the same. Ganya and Svetlana do not mind the way it is now but they do not know... they do not remember the glory..."

Ivan simply nodded along as Alexandr spoke. He did remember the past and to him it was still too painful to dwell on or speak of. But he could not help but appreciate the way the old man's eyes lit up as he spoke of it; and so, for a little while, he let his guard down and remembered with him. 

  


****

Brown eyes opened slowly, squinting against the mid-morning light. For a moment he was a bit disoriented - how did I get here? Where is here? For a moment he even did not remember the camp - his home for the last three years - but only for a moment. Reality came back to Giovanni quickly enough, slamming into his consciousness like a freight train... he closed his eyes again, willing the memories away. 

  


After a bit, he felt well enough to look around at his new room. The previous night he had been too tired from the journey to take note of the surroundings and now after some rest his curiosity kicked in. His gaze landed on a note on the table beside the bed. Neat penmanship was marred somewhat by a few crossed out words - obviously wrong turns in translating from Russian to Italian. 

  


Giovanni,

I have had to step out to run a few errands, they should not take me very long but I felt it best to leave this note so you would not worry. Get more rest, try not to move around too much yet, your body has more healing to do. There is water beside the bed as well as a few books in case you wish to read. The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left. I left some food for you along with the water if you feel up to eating. If not I will fix up something when I return.

Ivan

  


Someone cared... it was such an odd concept after so many years of being treated like nothing. He reached over and sipped at the water, marveling at its cleanness, its purity. Setting the glass down, he picked up the books beside it. One was what school children must have used in learning proper Russian Grammar. He thumbed through it a bit, looking on at the complexity of the language, the alphabet. It was so different from what he had seen, what he was used to. The second book was somewhat familiar... La divina commedia by Dante. A tiny smile graced his lips as he opened the old book. It was in Italian.... He could read it. Such a simple thing, a small joy he had been deprived of. 

  


He held the book up to his nose, inhaling deeply the scent of the paper and ink. It smelled wonderful...everything smelled wonderful now. No longer could he smell nothing but death and fear, pain and anguish. With something akin to reverence he set the books back onto the table and picked up some bread. It too was sniffed gently before he bit into it. Slowly he chewed letting the bread move over his taste buds. Rye bread... the taste was both unfamiliar and wonderful, the rough texture pleasing to him. He ate with a relish, quickly devouring the rest of the first slice and another along with it. More cool crisp water followed and he closed his eyes with a pleased sigh.

The bread and water invigorated him and he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He would no longer be an invalid - he would take a look around his new home. Standing was difficult at first, his legs grumbling as even his slight weight was placed fully on them. It was hard, but he noticed he felt better standing now in this strange house than he had for over a year. _'Is this the healing of the Quickening as Ivan said? Will I recover my strength so soon?'_ Pushing those thoughts aside he padded out of the room. 

  


The hallway, he noted, was lined with large paintings. Some portraits of what appeared to be nobles, others landscapes. He happened to notice with some curiosity that the same signature appeared on each painting, _Nastya Osipova. 'I wonder who she is...' _he mused as he continued down the hallway glancing over each picture with an appreciative eye. _'Very talented...' _

  


He stopped at a dresser midway down the hall and picked up a silver photo frame. A black and white picture of a large group of people was in it. Narrowing his eyes a bit at one of the men in back he made out what he thought to be the last Tsar of Russia, Nicholas II. _'He knew the Tsar... just how old is he?'_ He turned around and spied the bathroom, suddenly realizing that he needed to relieve himself. 

  


He was washing his hands when his gaze flitted to the ornate mirror above this sink... He stopped moving; just stared in shock at the reflection facing him. He did not recognize himself. Had he changed so much in so short a time? Where had the lines come from? The sunken cheeks, the pallor... He felt wetness on his cheek and realized he was crying, but he could not remember ever starting. 

  


It was almost painful to look at, his changed reflection, but he found he could not tear his gaze away. Could any amount of rest and healing change him back? Would he ever be normal again?_'Why did they do this?' _he asked himself. A wave of dizziness hit him then and he sank to the cool tiled floor pulling his knees under his chin. Flesh and bones... that was all he was now... His head started to ring and he placed his hands over his ears, shutting his eyes tightly, blocking the images and the sounds...

That was how Ivan found him fifteen minutes later, huddled in the corner of the bathroom. 


	3. Lost and Found: Chapter Two

Authors Notes: See prologue for full notes & disclaimers

  
  
  


Lost and Found

Chapter Two

  
  
  


When Ivan had first entered the quiet house he had not thought anything was amiss. He assumed that Giovanni was as he had been left, sleeping peacefully. He was wrong. He entered the bedroom expecting to see the other man lying there, but was met with an empty bed. With some alarm he spun around and strode down the hall. He could feel the other Immortal but could not find him. That is until he stepped into the bathroom and beheld the site of the Italian curled into a ball of sorts weeping softly and rocking as he murmured to people unseen. 

"Giovanni?" he inquired softly as he settled himself on the floor a frown marring his handsome face. The Italian made no sign that he had noticed the other man's presence. Gently he reached out to place a hand on the pale flesh of an arm. – Nothing. 

  


"Talk to me Giovanni… let me help you," he murmured as he edged closer to the other man. He took one trembling hand into his and then snaked his free arm around the huddled form pulling the younger man into his lap. The Italians head tucked under his chin and he simply sat there, hugging him. After many minutes the murmuring stopped. It was even longer before the Italian spoke. 

  


"What happened?" Giovanni finally inquired his voice sounding lost and far away.

  


"I am not certain," came the Russian's reply. "I found you in the corner when I returned. You might have had a panic attack or a flashback… it seems we are prone to those."

  


"Sorry," he replied. "I should have stayed in bed perhaps. I do not wish to be a burden."

  


"You are not a burden," Ivan replied. "I took you in to help you, and that is what I will do." '_Even if I am not totally certain how…_' "These things happen... Come on lets get you back to bed." He helped the Italian stand and held his hand as they walked slowly back to the bedroom. 

  
  


**

  
  


The remainder of the day passed uneventfully; Ivan tutoring Giovanni in Russian and honing his own knowledge in Italian. The newly Immortal man was an apt pupil, picking up the basics in a relatively short amount of time. Dinner was a quiet, yet momentous affair with Giovanni finally eating a more healthily proportionate amount of food than he had in years; and more than he had eaten during his short time with the Russian. 

  


"There are as many recipes for Borscht as there are people in Russia," Ivan had said with a grin when he served the traditional soup to the young man. "This recipe here has been in my family for generations. When I was young my mother would make it herself and serve it to me in bed as I am now for you."

  


"What was she like? Your mother?" he asked quietly. Ivan did not respond at first, his eyes distant caught up in a memory.

  
  


**** St. Petersburg Russia – 1904 ****

  
  


"If you fuss over the collar any longer mother I shall look like a peacock," an eighteen-year-old Ivan said. Alexandr, who was seated off to the side, snorted with laughter as he poured a cup of tea.

  


"I am just making sure you look your best," Nastya Osipova, his mother and the mistress of the house replied smoothing out his dark hair. She took a step back, admiring her work, though in all honesty it didn't matter what clothing he wore - her son was always perfect in her eyes. Ivan looked wonderful, regal and dignified as one befit his position. He had his father's looks and her eyes - and was one of the most sought after bachelors in St. Petersburg not only for his looks but for his position. He would be a Duke one day, like his father before him. "You look perfect," she finally said taking the offered tea from Alexandr. 

  


"As do you," he replied taking in the vision of his mother, resplendent in a blue gown that set off her eyes. "Shall we make our entrance before father comes looking for us?"

  


"Yes of course," she replied holding her arm out to him. "I look forward to tasting what you and your father have prepared," she said to Alexandr as they neared the door to the Manor's Dining Room.

  


"We hope it lives up to your expectations m'lady," the young man replied with a smile as he set the teacups back on their tray.

  


"It always does my dear," she said before the door opened. 

  


There was a soft fanfare and then the crowd fell into a hush as Ivan and his mother entered. All eyes were on them, from the nobles to the servants. His father Alexei, seated at the head of the table, looked on with pride as the pair received murmurs of appreciation. 

  


This was the annual Winter Ball, the banquet and dance that every noble man and woman, every dignitary, every 'very important person' in St. Petersburg, and even a few from Moscow, came to. Some years even the Tsar himself came.

  


Ivan pressed a kiss to either cheek then seated his mother at the table before taking up his place to his father's right. Seated across from him was a fair looking young woman whose father undoubtedly wished her to marry well. He exchanged a knowing look with his mother before launching into polite conversation with her until the feast began.

  
  


****Present****

  
  


"She was... beautiful, kind... talented... a wonderful person. I loved her dearly." He said haltingly, unsure how to voice what he felt. "I still miss her."

  


Giovanni gave him a bittersweet smile. "I do not think I will ever get over the loss of my parents...my family...my faith."

  


"Your faith?" Ivan's tone clearly showed his confusion over this. "You are free now; free to believe in whatever you wish, to practice your religion. You shall never again be persecuted for your faith."

  


"What faith? What religion? What God? What good did our beliefs do us? We are 'the chosen' of God and yet when we are taken, when we are *killed*, he does nothing, there is no saving grace. Everyone I knew, everything I held dear, was killed and stripped away - and all simply because of my religion. There is nothing left." Giovanni replied tiredly, his face bitter. "And now I am Immortal... How does that fit into God's grand scheme? From what you have told me he does not govern us in any way. And so you see, I have nothing to believe in now; things can never be as they were before."

  


For one of the few times in his life Ivan was left speechless, quite unsure what to say or if he should reply at all. '_How do you reply to something like that? I would not know where to begin_.' 

  


"I am sorry," he said finally. "It would be foolish of me to say I understand for our pasts are vastly different and I was not made to suffer as you were. Still..." he paused searching for the right words. "I came into Immortality during a time of great upheaval and change in my country. You are right; things can never be as they were before. And I cannot promise they will ever be anywhere near it, nor hold much joy." '_I know mine isn't and does not._' "But at least you are alive and have been given a second chance."

  


The Italian merely nodded and sank lower under the covers. "I wish to rest now." he said and so Ivan collected the dishes and left the room. 

  
  


****

  
  


He wasn't sure why, but it bothered him deeply to see the younger man bitter about something that once must have been very dear to him. Ivan was not a religious man; he too had lost his faith after his death and the destruction of the world as he knew it. The fact that the Soviet Leaders had outlawed religious practices of any kind in Russia made it all the easier for him to stop believing. 

  


He had never known many people of the Jewish faith, he had been a noble after all, and just didn't travel in the same circles usually. Not to mention the fact that the last few Tsars had forced many Jews to leave the country. 

  


During his years in Siberia with Sergei he had met some, and a more devoted and close knit group he had never seen. Despite the prohibitions set down by the government, despite the forced deportations, they remained deeply religious, devoted to their ways - and he had admired them for that. 

  


He supposed it was a miracle that Giovanni was able to come out of such an abominable situation as he had been in with his sanity intact. That he should feel that -that- fact alone was good enough and anything else was secondary. 

  


But he couldn't.

  


And he had no idea why.

  


'_Perhaps I do not wish to see another as disaffected of life as I am.'_ Herolled over readjusting the pillows. '_He has been left with nothing and he no longer believes in anything... How am I to convince him life is worthwhile when I do not feel that way myself?_' 

  


"I do not think I can do it Sergei..." he murmured. '_It should have been me beheaded by the shrapnel not you. You are a far better man than I - you would know what to do.' _Sleep eventually came to him but it was light and troubled.

  
  


**

  
  


Despite his exhaustion, sleep did not come easily to Giovanni either. He kept replaying his own words over and over in his head. '_Father would be ashamed of me, of what I said, for giving up._' His eyes wandered the strange room looking at things but not really seeing them. '_But then again father is dead, dead because of what he believed in. He and so many others... all of us innocent. Why? Why do they hate us so? Why did this happen? And why did God not try to stop it?'_

  


No answer would come to him though and when sleep finally claimed him it was fitful and restless and in the morning his pillow was wet with tears.

  
  


****

  
  


"A friend of mine may stop by today," Ivan said while Giovanni ate his breakfast. "Sofi Karpova Falipov, I've known her for a very long time and her husband even longer." He watched the Italian eating for a minute before continuing. "And she is a much better cook than I – though you seem to enjoy my meager skills." A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Of course we still need to keep your meals small until you are better used to eating again. Still, you seem much improved already." He glanced out the window then watching fat snowflakes drift past on their way to the ground. A normal winter's day outside by all appearances – yet in that house it was far from it. "She will also be bringing some groceries I hope. It has been a long time since I was last here and many things have changed. I would not know where to go or what to do myself," he confessed.

  


"What do you mean?" Giovanni asked.

  


"I was born and raised here in St. Petersburg." Ivan started. "That I use that name should give away something. I have not been back here since 1917 when I took leave. By that time a year later I had died my first death and was wandering the wilderness lost and confused. I do not know how the system operates in every day life in the Soviet Union. When I did manage to return to city life I pretty much immediately joined the army again. Sergei took care of most things back then as well. Of course raised as a noble I probably would not have been self sufficient on my own in the old country either." He gave a wry grin at that. "Such is life."

  


"Sergei?"

  


"My teacher," he replied softly. 

  


"Where is he now?"

  


"He died, four years ago." A shadow passed over his face and his eyes looked pained as he said this. _'And it was my fault..._' he added to himself. Both were silent until Ivan cleared his throat and offered to take the tray.

  


_'Obviously speaking of his past is difficult for him, certain parts anyway.'_ Giovanni mused while the Russian was away. _'He must have been close to his teacher. I wonder what happened...'_

  


"Do you want or need anything?" Ivan asked when he came back in. 

  


"No, thank you. I'm fine." 

  


The Russian nodded and then retreated from the room. He ran a hand through his hair as he walked down the hall and then descended the stairs to the first floor. He didn't know what to do, for the first time since he had emerged from the dark months following his first death he had no one to turn to and nothing to lose himself in. Had he been alone this wouldn't be that bad. He would have no problem fading away, giving up and giving into the misery his life had become. But he had pulled another person into his life. Taken on the responsibility to care for and protect him. 

  


"What the hell was I thinking..." he muttered. '_Can't handle my own life and now I am trying to teach someone else..._' "He might have been better off had I left him with the aid workers." He sighed and downed a shot of vodka, savoring the warmth of it trickling down his throat and spreading through his stomach. Despite his misgivings he knew in his heart that he had done the right thing in taking Giovanni with him. Had he stayed someone surely would have found out what he was...

  


'_He escaped experimentation once... I do not think he would have a second time._' He grimaced and downed another shot trying to burn the images of skeletal victims horridly disfigured in the 'hospitals' of the camps from his mind. The Nazis were being pushed back; soon they would no longer be able to do such things. But somehow he knew his own government wouldn't hesitate long over trying to figure out what made an Immortal tick, figure out how they could be used. The nameless faces and bodies of his gruesome mental slide show were suddenly replaced by the visage of the Italian upstairs. He downed a third shot then let out a hissing sigh. '_No...no this was for the best. I just hope I can do right by him_.' 

  


He had no sooner banished his negative thoughts and made himself comfortable in the living room than a knock at the door roused him. The young man he met at it was nearly the image of his father in his youth.

  


"Ganya," they clasped arms and exchanged kisses. "You look well," he said stepping aside to let him in and then turning to greet his mother. 

  


Sofi was a small woman, no more than 5'3" at the most, with a stern yet kind face. She looked older than her fifty five years. Well worn lines marking her weathered face, each an echo of a joyous or grief filled moment in her life. He leaned down and pulled her into a hug. Deceptively strong arms encircled him as well and he felt as though a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

  


"Still so very handsome," she said cradling his face in her hands after kissing his cheeks. "But your eyes are so sad... what is wrong Ivanushka?" 

  


"I'm just tired," he said closing the door. "But it is good to see you both. When I heard the Germans had the city under siege..." he trailed off for a bit. 

  


"It was not easy but somehow we managed," Ganya replied. "The fighting was fierce, many of my friends died. Luckily a Kraut bullet tagged me in the best possible place," he grinned and tapped his butt. "Immediate discharge."

  


"Share your war stories later," Sofi said shushing the two men. She had removed her coat and shawl and was looking around the house. "Bring in the supplies dear," she said to her son. "And you," she turned to Ivan, "You tell me of your guest."

  


"He is young," Ivan began leading her into the kitchen. "Probably not much older than Ganya, if he is older at all. I do not know much about him to be honest. A majority of the time he has been with me he has been resting. He looks better than he did when I first found him, though he is still not fully well – and still so thin..."

  


"We shall soon rectify that," she said with a warm smile as she moved about the kitchen, clearly in her element. "What is his name?"

  


"Giovanni."

  


"A good name." She readily accepted the groceries Ganya brought in and began to sort through them, passing some to Ivan to be stored and keeping some out to be used for dinner. "I have never prepared a kosher meal," she said. "When he is well he shall have to explain it better to me but for now I will try my best. And we will just concentrate on getting him healthy." She looked over to Ivan briefly and raised a brow at his expression. "I have never known you not to speak your mind. Out with it."

  


"I... do not know if you will have to worry on that much. He has, as far as I know, turned his back on his religion and its practices." Sofi said nothing; a simple arching of one brow indicated she had heard what he said. "What will you be preparing?" he asked changing the subject.

  


"Draniki, and Pirozhki with cabbage," she replied. "I do not wish to tax him with anything too rich." Ganya returned once again, with a large sack of potatoes. "And we have a surplus of potatoes. We ask the Allies to send help to us – they give us potatoes."

  


"He seems rather fond of Rye bread," Ivan said as Ganya took a spot beside him.

  


"Than we shall make some of that as well in time." She took Ivan's hands into her tiny ones. "Do not worry, Babushka is here and will take care of you."

  


"I am older than you dear," he replied with a genuine smile. She merely smiled to him in return.

  


"Ganya, would you begin peeling some of those potatoes for me? I wish to meet your charge Ivan."

  
  


****

  
  


"Ya ga-varYOO, vwee ga-va-REE-t'yeh, ah ga-va-REET."* Giovanni hoped his pronunciations were correct. It was fairly easy getting his mouth around the strange words but making sure he recognized the alphabet well enough... "Ya ga-var YOO..."

"Verb conjugation already?" an unfamiliar female voice said. The book dropped to his lap with a soft thud and he watched a tiny graying woman move to the side to let Ivan enter. She said something then in Russian again but he couldn't catch all the words, they spoke so fast...

  


"She said your pronunciation is very good for someone new to the language," Ivan explained. "Giovanni this is Sofi Falipov, Sofi - Giovanni Bassani."

  


The tiny woman sat next to him on the bed and took his hand. Her eyes twinkled kindly but held a sorrowful light as they flitted over him. She murmured softly and brushed a hand over his shaved head and trailed a finger down his jaw line. He recognized the expression on her face - motherly concern. 

  


'_I miss you mother..._' Suddenly the urge to weep was strong as images of his own mother came to mind; but somehow he managed to keep composed. She spoke again to Ivan and Giovanni turned to him, hoping for a translation as the woman rose and left the room.

  


"She said she thought it might be good for you to bathe and get dressed and eat dinner in the dining room with us in a few hours. You can wear some of my clothing if you want to. They won't fit you perfectly but it will be better than your pajamas I imagine." 

  


"How... how many people will there be?"

  


"Sofi, her son Ganya, and myself. You and Ganya are of like ages I believe." 

  


"And they... know what we are?"

  


"Yes, I tried to keep contact with their family as much as possible. In my old life they were my family's servants. And Alexandr, Sofi's husband, and I were good friends also."

  


The offer was so very tempting. Eating dinner at a table with friends and family like a normal person... But could he stand the looks of pity in their faces and eyes? The hollow yet well intentioned statements of "I understand how you feel..." or "you poor dear..."

  


"I don't know..." he began. 

  


"They are good people," Ivan said. "They will not look down upon you if that is what is worrying you."

  


"That is not it," the Italian replied. "I... I don't want any pity." he said glancing down. "I appreciate the fact that they feel badly for what has happened to me but still... It is hard to see it in their faces all the time. A constant reminder in a way - if my body wasn't one already."

  


'_He still has his pride._' This realization pleased the Russian Immortal to no end. '_There is hope for him yet._' 

  


"I do not think it will be as bad as you fear." he said. "We are a proud people and have been through far too many hardships ourselves. There will be sympathy yes. But pity? No. For they would ask the same of you." The reply seemed to please the Italian, or at least dissuaded some of his concerns. "I will find you something to wear and set out a towel for you as well for whenever you are ready for your bath." Then with a bow of his head he was gone.

  


Giovanni shook his head a bit then reopened the book and began his studies again. _'I hope this is not a bad idea…'_

  
  


****

  
  


"You do not look so bad." Ivan said several hours later as he helped Giovanni down the stairs. The clothing the Italian wore was indeed baggy on him and hung loosely off of his small frame. But it was not as bad as he had feared. 

  


"It is lucky I am not much taller than you." He said as Ivan let go of his arm at the bottom of the steps. "Else it would have looked worse. I myself do not like looking at my boney wrists and ankles; I would not like to force that upon anyone else."

  


"A few days of Sofi's cooking and I shall have to roll you around the house you will be so big." The joke elicited a smile and slight laugh from the Italian as they entered the room. Giovanni smiled politely, if not a little nervously, as a tall man who looked to be around his age came up to greet him.

  


"Ganya Alexandrevich Falipov, pleasure to meet you." He greeted him in Italian. "Ivan schooled us some," he explained haltingly. 

  


The young Immortal glanced to his teacher with a rare hint of pleasure on his face. It had been a kind, and totally unneeded gesture yet he had done it; tried his best to make this just a little easier for him. The smile that graced his lips finally reached his eyes for the first time in years. 

  


Sofi had come up to him in the meantime and took his hand into hers, greeting him then guiding him over to his seat. The table was covered with several dishes, some of the food looked familiar some not, but all of it smelled wonderful. 

  


He had been hungry for three years. It had become a constant, conscious, feeling for that entire time. First it had been easy enough to ignore – a gnawing feeling ever present but able to be pushed aside. Then there had been the pain… hunger pangs so strong they would double you over. For a time after that he had been so hungry that he no longer felt it, in fact his appetite had disappeared entirely. It was as if his stomach had given up on ever getting anything. He had felt that way for most of the last year, occasionally it felt like there was a great empty pit inside him but for the most part he had almost truly forgotten to eat at all. 

  


The site of so much food before him, though surely it was less than at a meal before the war, was daunting. He almost found himself asking permission to take some… If the others noticed his hesitation they said nothing. 

  


In fact while he had been marveling over the meal the three Russians had launched into a rapid moving discussion. It was interesting to watch really, so much to take in. Giovanni had always been an inquisitive person; he had also enjoyed watching people – learning more about them through their actions or expressions. It was something he had not done often in the camp; everyone acted the same there anyway – lost, defeated, dead to the world. There had been nothing to see. 

  


But here, here suddenly there was a veritable explosion of things to take in. 

  


They were fairly animated as they spoke; not the same way as his own, Italian, family had been of course. His father had joked that if one was not careful at the dinner table they might have an eye poked out they gestured so much. 

  


Ganya, who was seated across from him, used his hands the most. He also nodded a fair bit. He was the youngest and so often would defer to either Ivan or his mother. He had no trouble speaking up when he disagreed though it seemed. He had a tendency to lean towards whoever he was making his point to as well and the more excited he became the more his hands would fly.

  


Sofi, though female and also the smallest in stature at the table, commanded a great deal of respect from the two men. She spoke softly, often with little to no movement. Ivan and Ganya would fall silent respectively whenever the woman had a point to make or comment to add. She was also the easiest for Giovanni, with his limited knowledge of Russian, to understand. Speaking a little more slowly and carefully.

  


His father would have liked her, he determined. There are some, who speak only to hear their own voice; and there are others, more quiet people, who speak rarely but when they do it is very important. He had told his son. Sofi by all appearances was one of the latter.

  


And then of course there was Ivan. He had yet to see the Russian in a more social environment, though they had only known each other for a short time of course. The change in his demeanor was palpable. 

  


Here, among old friends, he appeared; lighter, happier, almost a little carefree even. The worries and demons he seemed to carry did not have as strong a hold over him. He was smiling, not tense or forced but open and happily. His eyes lit up as he spoke and his expressions were quite animated. The small glimpses into the person his teacher was or perhaps still could be somehow made up for the fact that he had almost no clue as to what was being said. 

  


Ivan had of course engaged him in conversation, encouraged more of it even but he had simply smiled and replied that he was content for now to just sit and enjoy everything around him.

  
  


****

  
  


"You were quiet during dinner," Ivan commented after Ganya and Sofi had left. "Were you all right? I hope you did not feel left out."

  


"No, no.. I was - am fine. It was nice just to be able to watch a normal dinner conversation.." Ivan offered a smile to this. "You seemed much freer tonight - during dinner." He continued. "They make you happy - the people, the links to your former life. You hold yourself differently in their presence..." he caught the Russian's eyes with his own steady gaze. "Fewer burdens." Shock briefly registered in the blue eyes before Ivan could smother it, pull the walls back up and avert his gaze. He was about to speak, apologize for going too far - overstepping boundaries - when Ivan raised his eyes back up.

  


"My life before was a good one, it held purpose, a future. It no longer does." he said cooly. "At times I somehow fool myself into forgetting that or believing otherwise." His face was cold, closed off; no hint of the man from dinner remained. "If you do not require anything else I shall leave you to sleep now."

  


The Italian shook his head quietly then watched him retreat from the room. _'Too soon - I spoke on it too soon. He does not trust me, perhaps now he never will.'_ With that particular thought foremost on his mind he readied himself for bed.

  
  


**

  
  


_'For someone so damn young he is perceptive, more perceptive than I ever was.'_ "Or am now," he finished out loud. In less than two weeks, and most of that time spent almost completely silent or in sleep, the newly Immortal man had managed to discover a few of Ivan's hang ups. Hang ups he thought he hid fairly well.

  


"He's getting to you," he could almost hear Sergei's voice speaking to him. "Messing with your idea of normalcy. This is good for you."

  


"No it is not," he muttered. "I was rather happy being miserable in a bleak and war torn life." he paused, glancing around the room before groaning._ 'And now I am talking to myself, or the imaginary voice of my dead teacher. I must be going insane...' _His eyes went to the wall where three rooms away the Italian lay sleeping. _'And you are the cause of it.'_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Trans (Russian):

Babushka: Grandmother

  
  


* English phonetic pronunciations of the Russian phrases: 

  


I speak 

You speak

He speaks

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Lost and Found: Chapter Three

Author notes: I must thank JP for her support and feedback, and Jeanne for the Beta. Translations of foreign languages will be listed at the bottom of the page. See prologue for full notes and disclaimer.

  
  
  


Lost and Found  
Chapter Three   
  
  


It was night. At least, he thought it was night. The stifling heat in the car had lessened some and the weak light that had been filtering in through a few cracks was no longer present. Some people shifted restlessly in the cramped space; however most were too tired and weak to think about moving. The train suddenly began to slow and then finally, with a sickening lurch, it stopped. 

A hand on his arm made Giovanni look up, and he met his father's steady gaze. His eyes... they were different. Where before there had been fear there was now a calm acceptance. 

"Papa?" He bit his lip, not liking what he saw in his father; not wanting to see it. 

"You're a good boy, Giovanni, you've grown into a good man, I am proud of you." 

The finality of his tone... was he saying goodbye? 

"I want you to promise me something. You must never give up. Do you hear me Giovanni? Do not give up, nor give in. Hold the truth and your faith here." He tapped him on the chest, above his heart. "Remember, Giovanni, you must remember everything." 

"Papa? What do..." The doors to the car swung open, stalling his question on his lips as the harsh environment outside invaded the black box. People near the front of the car began to move out, not fast enough apparently, for the imposing guards began shouting, loudly, angrily, in German and their nightsticks were swung freely... Dogs pulled at leashes snarling and biting at them as they filed out - out into a living nightmare. 

Smoke spiraled out of columns off to one side; a sick pungent odor permeated the air. Ghostly figures dressed in striped pajamas seemed to float past as they lined up. He looked at them only briefly before his mother took his arm in a vice-like grip. She was sobbing as she hugged him, then passed a hand through the dark curls on his head and finally cupped his cheek in her hand. She was saying something... it sounded like a farewell... 

_"__Y'simcha elohim k'efrayim v'chim'nasheh."_ His father was blessing him... why on Earth would he be doing that now? _"__Y'varech'cha adonai v'yishm'recha. Ya'eir adonai panav eilecha vihuneka. Yisa adonai panav eilecha..."_ His father was being pulled away. The guard struck him, shouted something... and then his father was led off... His mother was weeping, clinging to him. She too was pulled away. Two guards half-carried her as she struggled, reaching back for him, screaming his name... 

"Mother? Mother no..." he broke from the line, started towards her, then cried out in pain as he was struck in the side by another guard. 

"Get back in the line!" The guard spat shoving Giovanni roughly back into the line as it passed under the gate. They stumbled along in bewilderment, whips and canes striking those who fell back too far or strayed from the line. The dogs continuing to jump and snap at them, their expressions equal in ferocity to their masters. 

They were led into a large brick building and told to strip and hang their clothing on a peg behind them. Giovanni did so mechanically. He did not flinch as the barber at the next table over shaved his head, the thick curls of hair his mother had so recently touched falling to the floor, then the rest of his body. He was seated at a table, there was the smell of alcohol briefly and then pain lanced up and down his arm. They were tattooing him. Once that was done they were ushered into another room and given their camp uniforms. His arm still hurt; a dull throbbing pain and, after dressing, all he could do was stare at the number '150862.' A guard noticed his inattentiveness and raised his club to strike Giovanni. 

** 

Giovanni jerked awake with a small cry, glancing wildly about. Slowly his breathing and pulse began to return to normal as his eyes met nothing but a pleasantly furnished, modest sized, bedroom. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and absently rubbed his arm. It did not hurt him but the ghostly echo of pain from the dream still lingered. 

He rose from the bed and made his way quietly down the hall. His agitations in the dream and his waking had not been loud enough to wake the Russian and he did not want to do so now. He ran water in the sink briefly then cupped some in his hands to run over his face. The cool liquid seemed to ease some of the tension from the dream, for which he was grateful. 

His eyes strayed to the tattoo on his arm as he reached out for a towel to dry his face. Then as he was bringing the towel up to his face he spied the razor on the edge of the sink. 

** 

His sleep had been deep and dreamless for most of the night, something that had not been happening of late. So when Ivan awoke and heard a noise in the hall he simply turned over and tried to fall asleep again. However when he heard a clatter and the loud thud of someone falling in the bathroom he was up and out of the room before his mind even had time to comprehend what was going on. 

He swore aloud at the sight that greeted him. The floor of the bathroom was covered in blood – and he didn't want to identify what the thicker, solid looking substances were. Giovanni was half-sitting, half-lying on the floor crying and clutching something in his hand; blood flowed from a cut on his other arm and Ivan's stomach lurched. _'__He did this to himself?'_

Once again he found himself kneeling next to the younger man, putting an arm around him and using the other to remove whatever it was he held. The Italian let out an anguished cry when Ivan managed to pull the razor blade from his grasp, lancing his own fingers in the process, his blood mingling seamlessly with that already splattered on each of them. His cuts healed rather quickly though and, after tossing the blade into the trash, he pulled the younger man into a tight embrace. The twisted thought that these breakdowns in the bathroom were becoming far too much of a routine came to mind and was subsequently dismissed. 

"It won't come off… I want it off, I want it gone! Why won't it come off?" Giovanni choked out between sobs. The most recent cut to his flesh had finally healed over and Ivan noticed it had been on the tattoo. "I don't want it, I don't want to remember. Make it go away. Please... make it go away..." His voice hitched on the last word as great heaving sobs overtook him, shaking his entire body even in Ivan's embrace. 

"Shhh... it's okay... it's okay..." Ivan ran his hand over the other man's back in soothing circles. "I'm so sorry..." He shut his eyes to block out the sight of the blood on the floor, on Giovanni, and on him now. _'__I don't know what to do... I don't know what the hell to do...'_ he thought over and over, the words becoming a mantra. _'__Dear God help me... What do I do? How do I help him?'_

The crying did not cease. In fact, if possible, Giovanni became more hysterical, struggling to loosen Ivan's grip, reaching for the trashcan, pummeling the Russian weakly as he made noises of frustration and anger. And all the while Ivan simply sat and held him, taking the hits soundlessly, ignoring the angry and frustrated exclamations and the harsh words that spilled out from the Italian's mouth. 

Slowly the struggling began to stop. It was then that he realized he was singing, trying to soothe the young man with a comforting melody. He didn't know when he started or why, only that he was. It took a bit to recognize what it was that he was singing, but once he did he had to smile. It was a lullaby, one his mother had sung to him as a child when nightmares had awoken him and sent him running into his parents' bedroom. Hot tears splashed on his collarbone as Giovanni turned into him, fingers clenching and unclenching convulsively around the hem of Ivan's shirt. 

"I cut... I cut it off - I cut it out... it grew back. It just kept growing back." The heaving sobs started anew and shook both men as they sat on the bloody floor. 

"Shhh..." He soothed, hugging the younger man a little more tightly. He should have thought of this, he should have prepared for it, told him more things about Immortality – explained… but he hadn't. Yet again he had failed. 

"Any mark we bear on our flesh before death will remain with us in our new lives," he said his voice low. _'__I should have told you that – prevented this.'_ Giovanni's hands fisted against him as he let out another strangled noise. "In turn no mark can be put upon us in Immortal life, save for where we are vulnerable - the neck. I'm so sorry... I should have explained that earlier. I wish I could do something more; and if I could, I would take it away from you. But I can't." 

"Why?" Giovanni asked against his shoulder. "Why did I have to live? Why couldn't I just die?"

Ivan had not often felt as helpless in his life as he did upon hearing those words. _'__Why indeed?'_ he echoed in his mind. _'__Why did I live when others more deserving of life died?'_

"I don't want to live, not like this, not in this world. I want my parents back, I want to be with them, I want to be dead." 

"You don't mean that," Ivan whispered. 

"Yes I do. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be alone. Everyone's gone." 

"Not alone. You're not alone." He pulled back then raised the Italian's face to eye level. His cheek was tear-streaked and damp under his hand from the continuing flow of tears. "You've got me." He offered a crooked smile. "I'm not much and I can never replace your family but I'm here if and when you need me, remember?" 

"You'll not leave? Not even after all of this?" Ivan shook his head. "Promise? Do you promise nothing will take you away? That you won't leave? No one has been able to for the last three years..." His eyes were bloodshot, wide and pleading. 

"I promise Giovanni, I'll not leave you." 

Something close to a smile graced the younger man's features and his hands released their grip on Ivan's shirt then slid around his back to embrace him in a desperate hug. 

"Spasiba." 

"You're welcome," he replied. _'__I hope I didn't just make an impossible promise.'_

  


**** 

Ivan had cleaned the floor as best he could while Giovanni took a short bath. It was almost 4 am by the time he helped the Italian back into bed. His own legs still carried faint traces of blood and he was still wearing the same t-shirt from earlier, the clean white cotton now marked with vivid reddish brown imprints. He had been walking away, intent upon cleaning himself up and changing, when a hand gripped his arm. 

"Don't go..." Giovanni said softly. "Stay, please?" His eyes were pleading again. "Until I fall asleep?" Ivan sighed - he really should go he knew, make sure the blood did not linger on anything in the bathroom, throw out the stained clothing... He took another look at the large brown eyes and nodded. 

"Until you fall asleep." He went to pull away, to grab a chair to sit in, but the hand on his wrist did not let go. He turned with a raised brow. 

"You can sit on the bed," the other man said in the same soft tone. Ivan gave an almost exasperated sigh and then the hand fell away. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean... you can go." Giovanni's eyes were downcast and he pulled his arms in against his body and turned over. 

_'__You asshole,'_ he berated himself. _'__He is going to keep pulling himself into that shell and never get better at this rate. You're doing more harm than good.'_ Wordlessly he sat on the bed then lay back resting his head on the edge of the pillow. The Italian shifted under the covers, turning over and Ivan felt eyes upon himself. 

"You do not have to stay if you do not want to. It was a foolish request anyway." The brown eyes dipped down again in embarrassment. "I am far too old to be running to someone after a bad dream." 

"No, no it was not foolish, I'm just an insensitive ass at times." He smiled ruefully. "And there is nothing wrong with needing comfort after a dream, especially the ones we get." The Italian gave him a grateful smile. "Now, sleep. No more bad dreams." With that Ivan reached over and shut off the lamp beside the bed, plunging the room into darkness. 

Giovanni was ashamed and utterly baffled by what had happened, his crazed actions earlier. One minute he had been fine and the next... the next he was trying to mutilate himself. He trailed his fingers over the bandage Ivan had placed on his arm. Not to cover any cut, but rather to conceal the tattoo in the hopes that if Giovanni could not see it he would not be spurred on to such actions again. 

_'__And his opinion of me grows even worse...'_ His eyes traveled over the profile of the man lying on the edge of the bed. _'__I will make it up to you somehow…'_

  


**** 

Sunlight danced over the frost upon the window, twinkling merrily, when Giovanni awoke the next morning. True to his word Ivan had stayed until he had fallen asleep. He could not recall hearing or seeing the Russian leave, and his sleep had been dreamless the remainder of the night. 

He was apprehensive when he opened the bathroom door, expecting to see blood, expecting the rush and dread of a flashback. Nothing happened. The floor was once more a pristine white. There were no traces of last night's incident and no flashback. 

_'__Why did I do it?'_ He stood at the sink after washing and drying his hands, waiting to see if the madness would take him again. 

It didn't, and it left Giovanni all the more confused. 

Continuing down the hall he pushed open the door and peered into Ivan's room. He was still asleep, sprawled unceremoniously on the bed as if he had just collapsed upon entering the room. _'__Which might not be far from what happened.'_ Dark rings were trying to form under his eyes and his expression was troubled. _'__He scowls even in his sleep.'_

Giovanni backed quietly out of the room, not wanting to wake the other man, not again anyway. He shut the door and made his way back down the hall then descended the stairs. If memory served the kitchen was on the other side of the dining room... 

It was modestly sized; and had an odd mixture of new up-to-date appliances and older, more archaic, ones. After a few minutes of searching he found what he was looking for, a vacuum coffee brewer. His hands automatically knew what they were doing and soon enough water began to rise within the glass housing soaking the coffee grinds, filling the air with a rich aroma. Leaving the pot to itself he wandered back through the dining room into the entrance hall. There was a door in the wall, near the stairs. He hadn't noticed it before. His natural curiosity took over once more and he went to the door. Trying the handle he was pleasantly surprised it was open. If it was not locked then Ivan perhaps would not mind if he looked in the room... 

It opened inward into a darkly painted room. Sunlight peeked in through the curtains but didn't do much to illuminate his surroundings. He flipped a wall switch, half expecting it not to work. It did work though, and a simple candelabra chandelier came alive above him, bringing a warm glow to the room. There were books, lots of books; a desk, a piano, shelves and cases with several kinds of heirlooms on display. 

"I can give you the grand tour later if you like," Ivan said from behind, causing Giovanni to jump and whirl around. 

"I... I didn't mean to..." His face was apologetic. The Russian waved a hand dismissing the apology. 

"I figured eventually you would stumble onto this room, didn't think it would be so soon though," he said leading the other man out and heading back for the kitchen. "You can go wherever you like in the house, it is your home too now." He ran a hand through sleep-mussed hair. "I thought I smelled coffee." 

"I was hungry but didn't want to wake you," the Italian explained. "What was that room?" he asked grabbing a roll as Ivan filled two cups of coffee. 

"If you like we could eat in there this morning. Give me a chance to explain." 

** 

"This is the library; though you could probably call it a study if you prefer," Ivan said as they sat on a sofa. "My family had three different homes. Our main one, the manor house, is in the palace district, a little outside of town. Then we had this one, in town; and finally a dacha in the Caucasus, where my grandmother lived. After the revolution Alexandr and Sofi lived here for a time. They moved out eventually, got their own place, but somehow Alexandr kept this place out of the government's hands. I won't even guess as to how he gives them the runaround but I am glad for it." 

"So all this stuff has been here since then?" 

"Not quite," Ivan replied. "There was far less than this last I lived here. Not all of this belonged to my family either," he said gesturing around the room. "The Soviets, they 'cleaned out' many of the palaces and manor homes in the years after the Revolution. Some of the things they kept in them and the rest, whatever they didn't want, was simply thrown out without any regard for what any of it meant to anyone. Alexandr grabbed some of this from the garbage, saved it. At the time he simply wanted to keep a remembrance of the past, he did not know I was still alive. After he found that out he kept this all for me. Hoping I might move back here eventually." 

Giovanni sipped his coffee while he took in what the Russian said. He understood, only vaguely, what had transpired during the time Ivan spoke of. Knew even less on how different the new government and the monarchy had been. This country, and much of its history, was as much an enigma to him as the man before him was. 

"If... if you do not like the government, what they are doing, the changes they have made, why don't you leave? Go to another country?" 

"This is my home. It is where I belong. My beloved 'Mother Russia.' I cannot leave her, for she will never leave me, no matter how she changes. There is nothing like her anywhere in the world." There was a note of pride and deep affection in his voice. "The Urals and Siberia with their wild beauty, the Tundra - crystalline whiteness as far as you can see, nothing looks so pure; the Taiga, so dense with trees you could be lost for years in them. The Black Sea to the south, the rolling fields of the Ukraine to the west... And then there is my home, here, St. Petersburg. They change her name but still the feel of the city is the same, old and new, vibrant yet calm; her heart has not changed. Here I still feel a connection to the past, to my life." He felt eyes upon him again and briefly he met the Italian's bold gaze; then ducked his eyes away and cleared his throat. Perhaps he had said too much. 

_'__He speaks with such passion and yet acts so defeated so often. What happened to change him so? It couldn't have been simply becoming Immortal, could it? Two wars... two wars and a revolution and God knows what else in between them all.'_

"Perhaps one day you could show me some of these places?" 

Ivan raised his head at the question, expression mildly curious, then smiled. 

"Perhaps," he replied. "When it gets warmer, I will show you around the city at least. St. Petersburg is especially nice in the summer, when it finally does arrive anyway. I think you will enjoy the White Nights." 

"What are they?" 

"Because we are so far north, every summer, for about a month the sun sets, but darkness does not take hold. The dusk lasts the night. The sky has a white cast to it – it feels… magical almost. At least it did when I was young." 

"It sounds beautiful." 

"It is," he said as Giovanni smiled. 

They sat in silence for a time, the ticking of a clock on the mantle creating a pleasant noise in the background. "How do you feel today?" Ivan finally asked. 

"I… better, I guess. I do not know what came over me last night. My actions-" 

"Were no worse than some of mine have been over the years," Ivan cut in. 

"Do you play?" the Italian asked. Ivan raised a brow. "Any of the instruments in here, do you play them?" 

"Ah." He rose from the sofa then seated himself at the piano. "I had many tutors as a child. Tutors for arithmetic, geography, languages - the normal academics. I also had tutors for more aesthetic pursuits, dancing, music, painting... all things a good noble should be able to do. They tried me on many instruments; the only one I seemed to have aptitude for was the piano." He rested his fingers over they keys, debating whether to play or not. "What about you? Are you musically inclined or do you just enjoy listening?" 

"I am afraid I do not play any instruments. We sang a lot though, in my family. At the synagogue and at home," Giovanni replied. "I would have loved to learn the violin - but - never had the chance. My mother was quite good though..." He trailed off. It was no use opening that part of his memory, it would only lead to more pain. Pain he wanted to forget, even if it meant forgetting some of the good memories as well. 

Soft notes began to swirl through the room as Ivan finally decided to let his fingers walk over the keys of the piano. It was a simple, familiar song. Beethoven. Für Elise. _'__A trip to the symphony could not be better than this,'_ Giovanni thought with a smile. The Russian indeed had some talent, albeit a bit rusty. But he could be playing the most dissonant of notes and Giovanni would enjoy it. It was the first real music he had heard in over three years. 

"That was lovely," he commented as the last notes faded from the air. 

"Thank you. It was the first song I ever learned, and my mother's favorite. I memorized it when I was fifteen so I could play it for her on her birthday." He spun around to face Giovanni again. "I haven't played in thirty years; I am surprised I still remember it." 

"I guess some things you never forget totally, no matter what happens or how much time passes." The minute Giovanni said it he felt like a hypocrite. Hadn't he just told himself it was best to forget some things? That it would be better to do so... He had to stop this train of thought - change the subject... 

"When will we be starting my training?" 

"Are you eager to start?" Ivan inquired raising a brow at the abrupt question. 

"Well, somewhat." Giovanni sighed internally. "I want to be active in some way. I feel rested, much better now. These slow days are wonderful and all but… I am becoming bored, restless." Ivan smiled at this. 

"I guess my inherent laziness has not rubbed off on you. Probably a good thing." He studied the younger man's face, gauging his seriousness. 

"Okay, we will begin your training tomorrow." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Translations in order of appearance and indexed via language. 

Hebrew: 

"Y'simcha elohim k'efrayim v'chim'nasheh"   
May God make you like Ephraim and Menasseh.   
-This is a Blessing used on male children on the Sabbath 

"Y'varech'cha adonai v'yishm'recha. Ya'eir adonai panav eilecha vihuneka. Yisa adonai panav eilecha..."   
May God bless you and keep you. May God's presence radiate upon you and grant you graciousness. May God's presence be with you. 

The complete blessing ends with (v'yaseim l'cha shalom = and grant you peace) this is used on children of both gender on Sabbath. 

It was not Sabbath that night obviously, however Giovanni's father simply wanted to bless his son one last time and those came to mind first. 

The blessing and its translation were taken from: 

Russian:   
Spasiba   
Thank you 


End file.
